


butterfly in your soup

by fannishcodex



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brothers, Domestic Fluff, Family, Gen, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mirror Universe, Secret Identity, Sickfic, Superheroes, Supervillains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 07:56:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16677649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishcodex/pseuds/fannishcodex
Summary: Mirrorverse AU. Dr. Venture is a first-class Guild villain, he shouldn't have to rely on his arch enemy to babysit his 7-year-old sons while he has a cold. But his co-antagonist Brock thinks differently.





	butterfly in your soup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [danvssomethingorother](https://archiveofourown.org/users/danvssomethingorother/gifts).



> Promptifc: "I’ve seen healthier looking corpses. You should head to bed." Brusty. For dan_vs92/danvssomethingorother. Inspired to use my AU where Rusty became a Guild villain after college (with Brock defecting from the O.S.I. to join him); and Malcom lost his parents at 18 and became the second Blue Morpho after his dad. Also, Rusty and Malcom had remained friends while they grew up, and learned they were brothers not long after becoming antagonist and protagonist. Also also, they grew a little estranged, but they're closer than current canon.

At first it was noise; then when he realized it was familiar, Rusty stirred in bed. _Malcom?_ And his first instinct was a warm feeling for his brother. But then he realized he should think _Blue Morpho_ and feel irritated, and his mind soon followed suit.

 

Things felt hazy and he felt...what, loopy? Whatever, he was fine—Rusty slipped out of bed, head spinning a little. He groped around, hand falling on the back of a chair where his bathrobe hung. Pulling the robe up, he slipped it on as he walked out of the room.

 

He dragged himself back to grab his glasses, then went back out the room.

 

Rusty blearily noticed a venchman with a file cross his path, then scurry faster when the underling noticed he was watching. Rusty continued to watch the hurrying venchman with some annoyance and skepticism; did a guilty conscience drive him to virtually flee his presence?

 

Then the noises again; and they solidified again, into what sounded like Brock this time. Brock and Malcom? He couldn’t make out what they were saying yet; just the vague tones he associated with their voices, the particular deepness of Brock’s and lightness of Malcom’s.

 

Rusty decided to ignore the skittish venchman and continue forward, coughing a little as he went. Whatever, probably nothing, Brock said he rubbed the venchmen the wrong way sometimes, and Rusty’s fairly certain he had appreciated the comment at the time. Big Bad intimidating his minions was good.

 

“—be good while you’re at your uncle’s, all right?” Rusty finally could make out Brock’s words, softly said.

 

“We will!” That was the boys in unison.

 

Rusty turned the last corner and saw across the living room both Brock and Malcom in their civvies at the door, with his seven-year-old sons in between them. Rusty noticed Malcom had the boys’ shared travel bag worn over his shoulder.

 

“Hi Pop!”

 

“Hi Daddy!”

 

Rusty moved his fingers beneath his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “What’s going on here?”

 

He removed his hands and opened his eyes, glancing again at Brock and his brother. Things still felt hazy.

 

“Um, Brock called, said you two wanted me to take the boys for a few days?...” Malcom said, casting a confused glance at said Brock.

 

“We talked about it earlier, Doc,” Brock said, looking at him. His voice was matter-of-fact, but gentle. “Before you, ah, went back to bed.” He glanced at Hank and Dean, considering them with what Rusty vaguely recalled as his ‘I’m covering up something from the kids’ look.

 

Yes, now he remembered a brief conversation about that, where Brock did most of the talking and he did most of the vomiting. (Which was probably what Brock was covering up for the kids’ sake.)

 

Rusty grunted, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, now covering up the sudden dizziness and exhaustion in his body with an irritated and superior pose.

 

“Right. Must’ve slipped my mind.”

 

Brock looked down at Hank and Dean. “Say bye to your father, boys.”

 

“Bye!” The two chorused, then began to walk away with their uncle. “Bye Brock!” They added with a wave, and the man smiled, waving back to them.

 

“Feel better,” Malcom called over his shoulder, and Rusty’s eye twitched. The haze now turned a little red.

 

“Oh, don’t worry about me, I’ll be back to normal in a few days, and then you’ll have to contend with the Spiderbot Mark III—”

 

“I thought that was for the Blue Morpho, Pop?” Hank asked, stopping with his hand wrapped around the end of Malcom’s gray jacket.

 

Rusty met Brock’s gaze and felt his co-villain’s glare burn into his head, and had to suffer through watching Malcom struggle not to laugh. At least Hank and Dean hadn’t looked up to see those two’s reaction, and they didn’t seem to quite comprehend his own, which he hoped was a poker face.

 

“Yes, but your father and I sometimes show our work to Malcom before we face the Blue Morpho,” Brock said, turning back to the boys with a calm look. “We want to see what he thinks.”

 

“When we asked what a morpho was, Brock told us it’s the name of a butterfly!” Dean said, looking up at Malcom and grabbing onto his sleeve.

 

“Really?” Malcom asked, looking half-amused, half-fond. Dean eagerly nodded.

 

“He’s named after an animal like Batman!” Hank added, bouncing on his feet.

 

“Oh please, animal-themed heroes and villains are a dime a dozen,” Rusty said, throwing up one of his hands and rolling his eyes. He inwardly cursed when he coughed immediately afterward, rather ruining the effect in his mind.

 

“All right, let’s go boys,” Malcom said, and Rusty felt his irritation flare up with how the vigilante’s voice softened.

 

The three left, with Hank and Dean saying “bye” again, this time adding that they hoped their dad felt better soon.

 

Brock closed the door, and gave Rusty a Look.

 

The Guild scientist scoffed. “What, it’s fine, the boys don’t have a clue Malcom’s—”

 

“Not that; you look like crap.”

 

“For your information, I look _fantastic_.”

 

“I’ve seen healthier looking corpses,” Brock said. He shook his head meaningfully toward the hall behind Rusty. “You should head to bed.”

 

Rusty deflated with a groan. “Fine,” he conceded. His head was spinning again anyway. “You may have a point.”

 

Turning around, Rusty began to walk back, with one hand along the wall for support. He tried not to look too pleased when he felt Brock come along and wrap a supporting arm around him, walking him back to their room.

 

When he was back in bed, Brock asked, “Hungry?”

 

“Are you buying?” Rusty asked, now feeling loopy _and_ a bit flirty.

 

“Gonna make soup,” Brock replied, placing a hand over Rusty’s forehead, and the Guild scientist shivered slightly at the coolness of his partner’s skin.

 

“Sounds good,” Rusty murmured, closing his eyes for a moment. “Thanks.”

 

Brock just grunted.

 

“Eat with me?” Rusty asked, opening his eyes and glancing at Brock, who again only grunted.

 

Later over their bowls of soup, Brock broke what had been a comfortable silence. “You know, _you're_  the one who said we should keep Malcom’s identity a secret from the boys until they got older.”

 

“See, I _knew_ you were going to bring that up—”

 

“Because you brought it up first. ‘Spiderbot Mark III’—come on, man.”

 

“I’m _sick_ , things are all wonky, you can’t hold me accountable for—”

 

“Wouldn’t have happened if you just stayed in bed,” Brock arched a brow, looking a little less than impressed with Rusty now playing the sick card.

 

“Well, I forgot we talked about Malcom taking the boys _because I’m sick_ , so I wanted to see what was going on when I heard him and you—”

 

“What, like you have anything to worry about Malcom here? Really?”

 

Rusty’s groggy mind scrambled for a rebuttal (and tried to ignore that his first reaction to hearing Malcom’s voice had been a sense of warmth). “Look, I hear your voices, my first instinct is to follow them, I wasn’t thinking clearly _because I’m sick_.”

 

Brock rolled his eyes. “Maybe I’ll just lock the door next time.”

 

Rusty laughed. And then that turned into a coughing fit, and Brock was patting his back, then rubbing circles along it.

 

Soup set aside, Brock helped Rusty lie back down.

 

“Just relax,” Brock said, and Rusty closed his eyes, feeling the other man run his hand down his arm. “Get some rest.”

 

And Rusty did.


End file.
